Detergent
by Shu of the Wind
Summary: Seriously, it wasn't as though she hadn't seen a naked chest before. Crane needed to get over himself. Oneshot. Gift!fic for thequeenpi. Happy (late) holidays, darlin!


**A/N:**

A VERY late Christmas present for thequeenpi. I wish I'd been able to get to this earlier, darlin', but my writing abilities were lessened for a...while, during break and after, and things were difficult. Thank you so much for your patience, and I hope you like it, even though it's kind of simplistic.

Teenage-girl!Ichabod and taking-none-of-your-crap-sir!Abbie. Aw yeah.

* * *

**Detergent  
by Shu of the Wind**

-_for thequeenpi_-

"Crane, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

She'd caught him straight out. Crane went stiff over the sink, very pointedly Not Looking at her as Abbie lugged her grocery bags into the cabin and shut the door behind her with her foot. He was shirtless, and she could see scars on his arms and on his stomach from what had to be swords. There was an old bullet-hole in his shoulder, the skin there puckered and reddish pink. She wondered how long he'd had that one before Katrina had spelled him to the Horseman. Then he realized she was looking at him, and clutched his shirt (sopping wet and grayish from the water) to his chest. "_Leftenant_!"

"Oh, for God's sake, Crane, I've seen a chest before. I've seen _lots _of chests before."

He sputtered a bit. "I—that is—this is _highly _improper—"

Abbie dumped her groceries on the kitchen table. She was in no mood for one of Ichabod Crane's attacks of the prissies. "If you're so embarrassed, put your shirt back on. Look on the bright side, At least you weren't washing your pants."

He looked about ready to pass out. "Leftenant," he said, breathing very carefully, as if he was trying not to hyperventilate. "If you would please turn your back, it would be…much appreciated."

"Are you serious right now?" He just looked at her. Abbie rolled her eyes, and turned her back on him with a huff, and she heard a sudden frantic scuffling from behind her, and the wet slap of cloth against water. It was only once he cleared his throat and said, "I am decent," that she turned back around to find him with his military coat on, and buttoned up to his throat.

She gave him a flat look. "Seriously. Crane. You're acting like I just ravished your firstborn child."

"The customs of fashion and manners may have been extraordinarily changed in the two hundred years I lay asleep, but one would think," he said, and at this he gave her The Eyes, the ones that said _I am going to be a gentleman if it kills __you_ "that there were certain rules of decorum that had not yet been excruciatingly violated by the—the casual styles of today."

"And yet all I can think is that it was just a chest, and _you _have your pants in a knot."

He winced, almost painfully. "Trousers," he said. "_Trousers._"

"Pants," she said, a little sadistically. "Can I unload my groceries now? Also, you're lucky it was me and not Jenny, because she kind of volunteered to bring this stuff over here, and if _she'd _caught you she'd just be telling you that she's seen boy chests _and _girl chests and you'd just have to deal with it. My sister's not as nice as I am."

He looked as though she'd just threatened to serve him up to Moloch, chopped and broiled with onions and garlic. Abbie dug ferociously through the bags, taking out cans of soup, eggs and milk, chips and salsa (something Crane had, for some reason, managed to get addicted to—or actually the way he put it was _found myself strangely fascinated with_, _culinarily speaking_, but Abbie knew food addictions when she saw them). Crane watched her do it, his lips pursing.

"My thanks for the foodstuffs. I apologize that I was unable to help you procure them."

"There's a case of bottled water out in the truck if you want to carry it in for me."

Crane stiffened, as if he'd swallowed a bug, but he left the kitchen without complaint. Abbie busied herself with putting things away. Crane kept things in funny places—cans of beans and soups where Corbin had kept his cereal bowls, the toaster in the very, _very _back of the dry storage cabinets (because he toasted his bread over a fire like a crazy person). The only thing he kept in the fridge was meat and milk. She wondered, for a moment, where he'd learned to cook—wasn't that a ladies-only deal back in the Revolution?—and then put the thought aside. Considering Crane was…well, Crane, the question was kind of ridiculous.

"I don't want to know how much you paid for these," said Crane, and dropped the water bottles on the counter. Abbie made a face.

"No, you don't." She reached into the sink, and drew out his dripping wet shirt. IT was covered in rough soap suds, and the water around it had turned grey; she wrinkled her nose. "I showed you how to work the washing machine, didn't I?"

Crane shifted, the way he did when he ran up against a piece of technology that he adored in theory and not so much in practice. "I did attempt to use it, but I was afraid that the different weave of my own garb would not fare well against such tremendous water pressure as must be placed upon it by such a device. It is simpler to just wash it by hand. Besides, if I might be so vain as to say so: the liquid soap I am supposed to use within the washing machine smells too floral."

"I can get you different soap."

"I would prefer the sink," he said, implacably, and took the shirt from her. Water spattered the tile between their feet. "If you please, Leftenant Mills."

She hummed, not an agreement, not a protest, and backed off. He left the shirt to soak—or maybe he was embarrassed to be washing it in front of her, who knew—and went back to reorganizing the cabinets she had made sure not to mess up. Abbie perched at the island in the center of the kitchen, swinging her legs thoughtfully, and dug out the one thing she'd bought for herself on her food run for Crane—a pint of ice cream. Crane handed her a spoon without her having to ask. It was only once she'd made a sizable dent in the ice cream that she said, "You didn't hear me drive up."

He paused in fussing with the cereal boxes he'd never opened. "I was thinking."

"About everything?"

Crane closed the cabinets. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "If this is your attempts to psychoanalyze me, Miss Mills, I would appreciate it if we could perhaps reschedule."

"You're not going to give me up to him," she said. "I know you're not."

He winced again. "Your faith in me is extraordinarily excessive."

"Oh, for God's sake, Crane. Why does it take so much for you to think well of yourself? It's not like you're going to put a knife in my back and then give me to Moloch all bloody." He went sheet white at the thought. Abbie wondered if she'd gone too far at the imagery. "Look. I trust you. I swear I do. You should know that by now. What I get is why you don't trust yourself."

He leaned against the counter, curling his long fingers around the wood. After a moment, he said, "I cannot comprehend how someone who has lived through such betrayal as you have can ignore the signs that it is staring you in the face."

She scowled. "Are you forgetting who told you this supposed prophecy?"

"No, but no prophecy we have heard so far has been inaccurate. It is only sensible to take this one into consideration as well."

"Oh, for God's sake, Crane." She stood, came around the island, and poked him in one of his coat buttons. "I trust you. Get it through your skull. I _trust _you and I—I don't trust a lot of people so stop trying to make me feel guilty for doing it, okay? You've never betrayed me before and you're not going to do it anytime soon either, so stop acting like a princess."

He stared at her. Abbie glared back. Then something in him seemed to relax; his shoulders came down from around his ears. He said: "I don't understand why you name your technology."

Abbie blinked. "…what?"

"You've named your mobile phone. Why would you name a mobile phone? It seems utterly ludicrous."

She couldn't help it. She smiled a bit. "It's as ludicrous as someone who washes his clothes in the sink when there's a perfectly good washing machine in the back room."

"Leave off, Leftenant. Your brand of humor gets decidedly grating when one is the butt of all the jokes."

"You're too soft."

Still. He started washing his clothes again. Abbie smiled at a job well done, and went back to her ice cream.

* * *

"Jesus, Crane, these are starting to fall apart. Can't you just get some—"

"Apologies, Leftenant, but I would rather keep the clothes I have."


End file.
